Fatal Flaws

chapter 11

I attempt to copy the smoky eye color she used on me the first night, opting for grey instead of purple. Maybe I should have paid more attention to her technique when she applied it. I remember that the darkest color goes on the bottom of the lid and lightens as it continues up, but which should I do first? I guess we'll wing it and hope for the best.  

Somewhat happy with the outcome, I go braver, highlighting the underside of my brows with a shimmery white. Now for the finishing touches. My hands shake, applying a thin layer of liner to the bottom of my eye. Pulling the brush from the thick, gooey container, I run it through my lashes. Despite being so lumpy, there are no visible clumps. I like the reflection I see in the mirror, but can't shake the feeling that something's missing. The longer I stare, the clearer it becomes. I know it's not blush, I never wear it. My cheeks have a natural reddish state to them. But maybe we should add a little color to my pale thin lips and liven them up. Not feeling too bold, I chose a light pinkish color. 

It's only a ten-minute walk, but I don't want to be late, and it's already six forty-five. Peeking at the mirror once more, I barely recognize myself. My outer appearance seems to have changed completely, but I like it. I feel grown. Rushing, I gather my belongings, shoving them into my bag and heading out the door. 

It's freezing out, I'm glad I grabbed a hoodie on the way out. Making my way through campus takes a little longer than usual, thanks to the massive number of students roaming around.  With the harsh morning breeze, the temperature has dropped significantly. I pick up my pace, almost sprinting to the building.

Walking in, the class is half full. Most students have chosen to sit themselves in the first couple of rows closest to the teacher. Smaller than the orientation room, it's set up similarly, containing the same bucket seats. The only difference is the color, these are maroon instead of a vibrant blue. Rather than holding pictures of dead presidents, the walls contain large oil paintings. Most of them are portraits of famous British and European authors that I'm familiar with, and some I'm not. 

Each side of the classroom contains the same large oak bookshelves. Thousands of books are crammed into the overflowing shelves, carefully separated by size and color. Each section is divided by genre with small tabs located beneath the shelves, naming them. A small porcelain statue sits on the nearest shelf. It's a man sitting in a rocking chair, with a small child in his lap, reading from a large book. The detailed work is amazing, from the intricate clothing down to their tiny eyelashes. 

Not wanting to disturb anyone, I chose the seat furthest towards the back, but closest to the door. Quietly, I slide into the seat, placing my bag beside me at my feet. I remove my books, organizing them neatly on the small desk. Feeling someone's arm graze against mine, I tense. The scent of his cologne gives him away. I know who he is, without looking up.  

"Isn't there anywhere else you can sit, Hayden?" I hiss, rolling my eyes. Glancing over, I'm taken aback by how sexy he looks. His white tee hugged snugly against his perfectly sculpted abs, outlining them. Along with the dim lighting, casting a unique shadow against the dark lines tattooed on his olive skin. He looks so serious, his piercing, vibrant blue eyes look into mine. I have to contain myself and not melt into a puddle of mush. 

"Hmm, I could, but I don't want to," he whispers, inching closer. His arm narrowly escapes brushing against mine again. "I think it'll be way more fun aggravating you. Now quiet, the teachers here, and I don't want you to get me in trouble," he teases, lowering his voice to a whisper. His eyes turn playful, placing his finger to his lips, pretending to shush me. I force my eyes off him and onto the teacher as she begins her lecture. 

"Welcome, class, my name is Mrs. Roberts," she introduces, walking to the podium. A giant stack of papers she carries blocks my view of her. In one quick motion, she places the documents onto the stand. Using her hand, she adjusts the small black microphone attached to the podium's corner. "Together we'll embark on this journey, you and I. And I'll be with you each step, so will your classmates. Over time, you'll get to know each other, depend on one another, and use each other as lifelines. Don't be afraid to ask for help, we'll only succeed if we work together. So enough of that, let's begin," she finishes, clearing her throat. 

"If everyone could, please take out their syllabus and turn to the second page. You'll see from the brief description that we don't have much homework," She pauses, taking a moment to uncap her water bottle, before guzzling a few big gulps, placing its lid back on.

She's younger than most teachers I've seen here. Bright flaming red hair, neatly pinned into a low, tight bun, sits behind her right ear. Her natural beauty shines through without cosmetics, only a tiny hint of liner under her eyes. It's almost invisible beneath the thin black square frames of her glasses, lying across the bridge of her nose, helping to frame her thin, slender face. Bright green eyes sparkle from behind the lens, peering at each of us. 

Even her outfit choices far exceed the older teachers, wearing a tight-fitted long black skirt, tumbling below her knees. A long slit trails up the back, revealing her long slender legs. Her small, petite stature hides beneath an oversized, fluffy pink sweater with wide-open sleeves. Moving, the gold bracelets along her wrist collide, creating a clashing sound. 

"Despite a few changes here and there, we'll follow the syllabus closely. I'll try mixing things up to keep it interesting, but I can't promise you'll always enjoy it. We'll do a lot of freelance writing, with each of you responsible for daily journal entries. Sometimes, I'll assign certain topics, but most often you'll write about whatever you want. And don't worry, it's private, you won't have to share in front of the class or anything like that. I won't even read them, but I will randomly collect them to check that you're doing the assignments. So don't try to skip out on them," she mumbles, lowering her glasses, eyeing us. 

"Remember, people, this is your chance to express yourselves freely with no judgment," she continues, using her hands as she speaks. The repeated soft jangle of her bracelets is oddly calming. "Your first journal entry is due at the end of class today. As promised, the topic is free write. You can discuss what you did over the summer, your hopes and dreams, or even what you ate for breakfast. Just put your pen to paper and write whatever comes to mind. Please begin," she instructs, taking a seat at her desk. 

"And do I have to remind you that you're all young adults, not children? So please act like it!" she scowls sternly, her brows scrunching. Following her gaze, I recognize one of the girls her attention is directed towards. The blonde girl from the other day, the one throwing herself at Hayden, drooling over his every word, is seated in the front row.  Ignoring the teacher's remarks, she continues giggling with a small group of girls. 

Pushing her from my mind, I stare blankly at the paper. I have no clue what to write. Glancing around, everyone seems to be working, except me. Even Hayden is busy writing, his pen flies back and forth across the paper. Pressing my pen against the paper, I hesitantly begin writing, "I have a secret. Well, I have a bunch." 

Before I know it, class is over. Surprisingly, I ended up writing a full page. Despite confessing to having secrets, I never revealed what they were. But admitting that I have them was a good first step; it felt good. Knowing that they're real, and not a figment of my imagination, is hard to believe sometimes. No matter how hard I try or how many first steps I take, it's never enough. I always end up making a mess and taking ten steps back. Sometimes I feel like I'll never get ahead, especially taking the same path each time. 

"So, guess, I'll see you later," Hayden smirks, walking past me, allowing his shoulder to bump against mine. Wanting to leave, I quickly place my journal on the stack before leaving for my next class. Hopefully, it'll be peaceful and he won't be in it.